Unique
by Mel966
Summary: Bella was never normal; she has a gift that makes her unique. After moving to Forks, she meets a boy named Edward, who doesn't appear to be exactly normal either. But when her gift says he's dangerous and her heart says he's not, which will she listen to?
1. Chapter 1

_Welcome to _Unique,_ my newest story, and my first BellaXEdward story (excepting a few oneshots I've written about them). Hopefully, you will all enjoy this story. Thank you for reading, and I love reviews. Here is the first chapter. By the way, Bella will be slightly OOC, hence that I am going to give her a little spine and be a little less self-sacrificing, and, of course, an extraordinary ability._

Most parents, through the course of their career as parents, tell their son or daughter that they are unique, special, you could say. My mother was no exception to this, but what she didn't realize or guess was just how unique, or unusual I really was. Neither did I—until I entered kindergarten and learned to read.

Little five-year old me, complete with pigtails, waddling into my kindergarten class one morning, asking my teacher why she had the numbers "09312025" across her forehead. I was so proud of it too; I thought she would be delighted that I could read my numbers so well, and had noticed the numbers across her forehead. But she was confused. She insisted that she had no numbers on her forehead, and even checked in a mirror. By that point, I had started to cry, believing that she was being especially mean to me. I eventually let the subject drop, for I was entirely mortified at having her tell me over and over that I was wrong, that I was mistaken, even when I could see, plain as day, the numbers printed across her forehead like a tattoo.

In first grade, I made the same mistake with my first grade teacher and a girl in my class. Both of them were bewildered, telling me that they had no such numbers across their heads. But both of them _did_, and the numbers were different from each other, and everyone else had them, too. _Everyone_ else, including my mother, including my neighbor's son. I could even see numbers across my own forehead if I looked in the mirror, and no one else knew what they were or what I was even talking about.

My first grade teacher told my mother that I was desperately seeking attention, and that I should quit with the numbers business. On the way home, my mother told me that I needed to stop making it up, and I, sobbing, had told her emphatically over and over again that I wasn't making them up.

It took a few more incidents like that for me to realize that I shouldn't tell anyone—that they wouldn't understand, that they would be unkind to me because of it. But the damage was already done—no one would sit with me at lunch, or work with me in class. They would ridicule me, calling me the 'numbers freak,' or some similar insulting nickname. My mother, after realizing how miserable I was, let me change schools, and I was much happier after; I didn't dare mention the numbers on everyone's foreheads at the new school.

It wasn't until seventh grade that I figured out what the numbers were, what they meant. My grandfather had visited my mother and me for my birthday, and, as with everyone else, he had numbers across his forehead that read "09162004." I, of course, didn't mention them to him, and didn't even worry about it until three days later. My mother received a call from the hospital that my grandfather had died of a heart attack. I was saddened, but didn't realize what it meant at first. Eventually, I noticed that the numbers I remembered being across his forehead were like a date. 09 referring to the month, the ninth month of the year, September, 16 referring to the day in the month, and 2004 referring to the year. It completely freaked me out when I realized that the day he died was September 16, 2004.

At first I labeled it as a coincidence. But then I realized how absurd that was—what were the odds that a person just happens to see numbers that no one else does, and the numbers on her grandfather happen to be his day of death? From then on, I feared them. But at the same time, I learned from them. The numbers would change—I had seen them change before. In freshman year of high school, one of my friends had tried smoking, and her DOD (date of death) changed to twenty years earlier than it had been. I could only assume that this was from an addiction to nicotine, and that she would get lung cancer or something. I didn't mention it to her—how could I? But I was right about the addiction, and maybe I was right about the cancer.

When I was seventeen, my father came down for Christmas (my parents divorced before I was born), which was unusual; I normally would go to visit him. But for his own reasons, he came all the way down the Phoenix, Arizona from his lonely solitude up in Forks, Washington, for Christmas. Immediately, I was concerned for him; the numbers on his head implied a death only a year or two away. I was instantaneously determined to change it—to do something that would put his death off a few years. The instant I considered moving to Forks, Washington, the numbers changed to some day fifteen years later than the previous one. It was soon settled between my parents that I would move to Forks to live with my dad.

I didn't think about how much I would miss Arizona, my mom, and the few friends that I had, although they weren't very close to me. When someone's life was in question, such things seem very petty and trivial. And so, the week or so before I would have started my senior year of high school, I packed every belonging I had and was off a few days later on a plane.

After getting off the plane, the first thing I saw was my father waiting at the gate, looking gruff, which was his equivalent to affection. He opened up his arms and I ran into them, relieved to be off the plane and the uncomfortable seats.

"Hey, Bells," he said, releasing me from his embrace. I didn't protest—neither of us really were the kind to hug for hours in an empty airport.

"Hey, Dad." I almost called him Charlie, but I was thankful I didn't—somehow I didn't think that would sit over well with him. Subtly, I checked the numbers on his head, relieved that they still remained in the not soon future.

We talked little as we walked to the luggage carousel and waited for my bags to be unloaded from the plane. Charlie wasn't a very talkative person, and I had little to say to him anyways. After getting my four bags, he lead me outside to where his car was parked. The difference between the blazing heat of late August in Phoenix and the cool, overcast 70 degrees in Forks was stark, but I made no comment on it. I suppressed a groan when I saw that he had driven his police cruiser—he was chief of police in Forks, head of a division of about five or six policemen. He helped me get my bags into the trunk, and even held my door open for me when I slid into the passenger seat, muttering a quiet 'thank you.'

As he pulled out of the airport parking lot, he said, "I've got a surprise for you, Bells, back at the house." I scowled—I disliked surprises, especially if they were expensive ones. I'd rather have someone flat-out tell me what they were going to give me, rather than leave me to guess.

"What is it?" I demanded instantly, watching the annoyingly green landscape flash by as he drove well under the speed limit—probably to set a good example for me.

"It's a surprise," he repeated, emphasizing the 'surprise' part of it as if I were incapable of comprehending it if he didn't. I sighed, giving up on the matter, instead drumming my fingers on the armrest of the seat in an unsteady rhythm; I had never been good at keeping a steady beat, hence the reason why I couldn't play a musical instrument, although I envied those who could.

Forests surrounded the road—not the beautiful, four-seasons forests that you see on postcards from the East Coast, or the lush, tropical jungles that you see on postcards from South America. The trees in Forks were very green from the fact that it rained practically every day: the exact opposite of Phoenix. The undergrowth was thick and leafy—as if plants here magically didn't need sunlight to grow. Everything was green here, and I half-expected the sky to be green as well. About an hour of driving through forest after forest, with no sign of actual civilization, we finally reached a small, broken-down sign that read, 'Welcome to Forks. Population 3,781." Well, actually it would be 3, 782 after I moved there.

After the sign we passed by a couple stores—a small cinema, a few gas stations, grocery stores, an auto repair shop, and a couple others as well as many neighborhoods. Finally, Charlie made a left hand turn into a neighborhood, and proceeded down a street to the final house—a two story, white house with a brick chimney and blue windowsills. I recognized it as his house from the previous summers and Christmases I had spent in it. Sitting on the driveway was something new: a red, rusty Chevy pickup truck that had to be from the 70's or late 60's. It appeared to be in decent condition, if you exclude the rusty paint job, and had no extraordinarily large dents or at least none noticeable from a distance. Charlie pulled into the driveway beside the truck—it was quite a squeeze to fit—and opened his door, stepping out into the cool August air. I followed suite, eyeing the truck, wondering if it was the surprise.

"Surprise, Bells," my father said, tossing me a pair of keys which I failed to catch and had to retrieve off the concrete.

After knowing it was mine, I once again regarded the truck, looking at it from a new perspective. It probably wouldn't go that fast, but I had never been a fan of fast things, anyways. I was pretty sure it would be sturdy; if it was half as sturdy as it looked, a tank couldn't take that thing out. After my second inspection, I felt satisfied with the truck, and turned to face Charlie, saying, "It's great. Thanks, Dad." I was careful not to overdo the thank you's; that was another thing he wasn't big on.

He smiled, pleased by my acceptance of it. "No problem, kiddo." He popped open the trunk and grabbed two of my larger bags, leaving me to carry in the other three—a small purse from the plane, a backpack, and a roller suitcase. I did, closing the trunk with my elbow, and followed him into the house. It hadn't changed much since my last visit. Maybe he had moved a few chairs or gotten a new picture, but the yellow cupboards were the same, the curtains covering the window were unchanged, as were the couch and TV in the living room, the pictures of me adorning practically every wall, and the small dining room table that was partially visible from the front door were also all untouched since my last visit.

Charlie helped me carry my things up the stairs, and then, after a short, unnecessary tour of my bedroom, left the room to go downstairs and catch up on some sports pre-season report. I was glad for it—I enjoyed the peace and quiet as I unpacked my things, putting them into drawers. The next day, I would start school—Forks High started earlier than my Phoenix school did. It was a week or so into the school year, but I wasn't worried. I could easily catch up, after all. Academics were the one thing I was honestly good at—sports and any artistic activity were not up my ally.

I wasn't sure if I would make friends quickly here. My mother had assured me that I would, but that was her job as a parent, and, therefore, I didn't really count her opinion. They would all think me normal, and I could humor myself and agree with them. But, sadly, none of them could really know the truth about me, and I felt myself longing for a friend who I could actually confide in and not be labeled a liar or freak.

_So what do you think? Hopefully, you guys like it. Edward will make an appearance in the next chapter, in the famous cafeteria scene, well, my version of it at least. Thanks for reading. :) Please review and have a wonderful day._

_Mel._


	2. Chapter 2

_And here we have the next chapter. Hopefully, I made a sufficient enough first impression on this story for everyone to continue to read. Thanks for reading, and extra thanks to my reviewers. My schedule for updating will be a new chapter out, on average, every other day. Sometimes it may be the next day, or a few days later. Enjoy this chapter. :) Edward's first appearance._

A blush rose up the sides of my neck, warming my skin, as I pulled into the school parking lot of Forks High and every eye turned to gape at me. I wasn't sure if it was because I was driving my gift from Charlie—the old Chevy truck—or if it was because they had never seen me before. The school's population rested around 500, which was a third of how many kids were at my middle school, and with so little students, it would be easy to pick out an unfamiliar face or car. All the parking spots semi-close to the school were taken, and it was starting to rain, to my delight. After I parked in a spot far from the school entrance, heads around me shot up to stare at me when I awkwardly climbed out of the car, holding my pale green backpack to my chest. I pulled my hood up over my hair as a feeble shield against the rain pouring from the dark skies.

I kept my eyes firmly on the ground as I hurriedly walked through the lot: for two reasons. First off, the pavement was slippery from the rain, and I didn't want to risk a typical 'Bella maneuver' when I would fall flat on my face. Not exactly the first impression I wanted to make on my peers. The other reason was the more obvious one—that I was too shy to meet the eyes of any of the students in the lot, and I didn't really want to know when they would die. My hood was drenched by the time I was halfway down the parking lot and I was shivering from the cool wind that was biting straight through my wet clothes. Hopefully the school's heater was working.

The cars in the parking lot were what I had expected high school kids to drive: the usual beat-up Toyotas and the occasional Mazda, most with small dents and maybe a square or two of peeling paint. Beside them, my car looked ridiculous in its glorious rust and size and old-fashioned model. Towards the end of the lot were three very surprising vehicles: a shiny silver Volvo that couldn't have been more than a year old, a large red Jeep Wrangler that had mud streaked on its tires from its owner using it for off-roading, and a very flashy BMW convertible, even more obvious because of its bright red paint job. I didn't ogle the cars too much as I walked by, but my eyes were glued on them long enough to determine that no high school kid should drive or even have access to such fine automobiles. I had eliminated the possibility of a teacher owning them—the teacher's parking spots were on the other side of the school, according to the roughly drawn sketch Charlie had made for me that morning to assist me through parking.

Finally under the cover of the building, I slipped my hood off and combed a finger through my brown hair, feeling far too conspicuous as I was gawked at by the dozen students that were nearby. I tried to avoid looking at them, but I couldn't entirely evade it; and I could have informed the boy to be careful on April 24th, 2020, but I didn't. Ducking my head to steer clear of their inquiring eyes, I hastily walked towards the room that was marked on my map to be the front office.

"You must be Isabella Swan," the secretary said the instant that I was in her view, before I could even open my mouth to make introductions or inquiries.

Blinking away my surprise, I merely nodded and rubbed my chilly hands together, savoring the warmth of the office. It couldn't have been colder than sixty-five degrees outside, but when you compare it to the hundred plus that it would be in Phoenix, the difference was more pronounced.

"Here's your schedule, dear," the woman said. I stepped forward to accept the paper from her, noting that her name tag marked her name to be Mrs. Cope. "You need all your teachers to sign here," she added, indicating an empty space beside the names of my classes. When I nodded, she continued, "And just turn that in at the end of the day. A map of the school is on the back of your schedule, and I'm sure the student body will be willing to show you to your classes, dear. Have a good first day, Isabella."

"Thanks," I told her quietly, deciding against correcting her and saying that I preferred 'Bella.' She nodded once and returned her eyes to the computer screen in front of her; I took this to my cue to leave.

Once outside, I studied my schedule for a few minutes, flipping the paper over multiple times to match up a classroom number with a specific location in the school. By the time the bell rang, I had an idea of the general direction of my homeroom, and was headed off in that direction. In the hallway, I passed by the classroom twice before noticing the tiny lettering above the door that read 201. Slightly embarrassed, I slipped through the door and into the classroom.

Immediately the focus of everyone's eyes, I ducked my head and crossed the front of the room to hand my slip to the teacher. He accepted it, pressing it against his leg to have a solid writing surface, and signed his name with a flourish on the paper. I started to head towards a few empty desks in the back of the room, but he stopped me with a hand, and I stood in the front of the room, mortified at being the center of attention.

Once the tardy bell had rung, he rang a bell on his desk to capture the class's attention, but he already had it—or rather, I already had it. "Good morning, class," he said with a small smile. "This is Isabella Swan. She's new here, and I expect that you all will be a good help to her when she needs it. Isabella, after class you can pick up your book from my desk, and welcome to English 12 Honors. You may take any vacant seat; we have no absences today." Blushing, I nodded and quickly retreated into the shelter of my long hair as I walked down the aisle, plopping down into the first empty seat I came across, which happened to be beside a blonde boy with such bright blue eyes that I wondered if he wore colored contacts. His skin looked like most teenagers' did: acne, and of course, the numbers reading, "11232059" across his forehead, conspicuous to only me.

"Hey, Isabella, I'm Mike. Well, Michael, actually, but you can call me Mike," the blonde boy said too enthusiastically, smiling at me, unintentionally displaying his uneven teeth. Tentatively, I smiled back, thinking that this was going to be a long period if he kept up with that sort of behavior.

"Call me Bella," I said, and he beamed, looking at me adoringly. I instantly regretted it; I should have phrased it in a way that signified the fact that I _wasn't_ flirting with him. "Everyone does," I added as a light afterthought, andfelt bad once I saw his face crumble. I kept quiet after that, and turned my attention to the lesson; the teacher, Mr. Sheak, was lecturing on reoccurring Shakespearean themes.

Mike, however, didn't take my gentle hint, and continued to whisper to me, to the oblivion of Mr. Sheak and to my annoyance. When the bell rang at the end of the period, I held in my whoop of delight, instead settling for a soft sigh of contentment, which Mike took to be a sigh of disappointment. "What's your next class?" he asked enthusiastically as I gathered my things and headed to the front of the room for my textbook.

I checked my schedule before replying, "Biology with Mrs. Phillips." Mr. Sheak handed me a textbook, and I placed it in my backpack—the school had no lockers, instead, you had a set of books for home and every class already had books in it, much like my middle school back in Arizona.

He beamed, and I tried not to show my dismay. "I have her next, too. I can show you the way, Isabella." I politely ignored his calling me by the wrong name, and he wouldn't have paused long enough for me to protest, anyways. "Where'd you move from?" he asked energetically as we left the room, him practically dragging me.

"Phoenix, Arizona." I noted his surprise with little of my own—looking at myself, I wouldn't assume I came from any place sunny, either. I was of average height, thin, but not overly so and certainly not the muscular, in shape kind of thin; I was more of the 'lucky genetics and fast metabolism' kind of thin. My skin was pale; I could never get a solid tan, no matter how much I was outside. The brown, slightly curled, hair of mine was no extraordinary feature; my hair was pretty, I suppose, because of how healthy it was—I had no split ends or anything like that. My eyes were brown as well, and maybe a tad too large for my face.

This tidbit of information set him off on a tangent of how he went to Disneyland once and the heat shocked him. I simply tuned his rambling out, and followed him into a classroom. Once again, I attracted the attention of every student in the room, and bashfully evaded looking at any of them, silently handing my slip to Mrs. Phillips and waiting nervously while she signed it. "Welcome, Isabella," she said warmly in a high voice, passing me the paper back. "You may take a seat by Mr. Cullen." She gestured towards a vacant seat in the third row.

I heard Mike groan with disappointment, but I ignored him as I headed towards the seat, looking at the 'Mr. Cullen' I was to sit by. Somehow, I kept my jaw up, despite the fact that it nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of him. He was utterly gorgeous. It sounded wrong to say about a boy, but there was no other adjective that could possibly begin to describe him. He had tousled bronze hair that was obviously not gelled into its disarray, and such pale white skin. His face was flawless and perfect—angular nose, square chin, soft lips, and dark lashes framing his dark eyes. His eyes appeared almost black, but they probably were just a very dark brown, unusually so for his lighter hair. But something stopped me dead in my tracks when I looked at him, and it wasn't his inhumanly good looks.

The numbers on his head.

They read "09281918." I assured myself that it was impossible, that I had misread it. I was barely aware that I was standing, frozen, in the aisle way, blocking the people behind me from reaching their desks. I couldn't hear their muttered complaints; my entire being was studying the Cullen boy's forehead. He turned to face me, his dark eyes glaring at me, and the numbers taunted me on his forehead: 09281918. He died September twenty-eighth, nineteen eighteen. Over a hundred years ago.

I promptly fainted to the floor.

_I know, it wasn't the cafeteria scene. She'll have that eventually, and Jessica Stanley will come into the story to explain the Cullen's story. Bet you were expecting the cafeteria scene, and, as a writer, I don't usually like delivering what people are expecting. :) But thank you very much for reading, and please review! Have a great day._

_Mel._


	3. Chapter 3

_And here is the next chapter. :) I sincerely hope everyone enjoys it. Thank you for reading, and please, please, please review. Have fun._

"How are you feeling?" the nurse said, bending over me to dab at my forehead with a damp rag, her eyes full of worry. I blinked slowly, clearing the haze from my vision, trying to ignore the inherently obvious numbers on her brow (07272049 in case you were wondering).

It took me a second to comprehend her question, and during that second, I gaped at her like an imbecile, trying desperately to understand. After far too long a pause to appear of normal intelligence, I responded shakily, "I'm fine. _Please_ don't call my father." If they did, he would have to show up in his police cruiser, and the last thing I wanted to happen on my first day was to be shipped home in a police car. How humiliating.

She looked doubtful, and took a thermometer out of a first aid kit. "Open your mouth." I did, trying not to gag when it touched the uncomfortable spot under my tongue. "Are you sure? You were passed out for a few minutes. Is that normal for you?" I shook my head quickly—of course fainting wasn't normal for me. It was the first and only time in my life that I had lost consciousness. All because of… well, I'd best not think about that now. Besides, my brain probably made it all up and created a hallucination just to get out of my science class and away from that Mike Newton. Probably. Maybe if I said it enough to myself, it would make it true. Because there was no way that he had been dead since the early twentieth century. That was simply absurd.

The nurse removed the thermometer from my mouth and checked the temperature, a frown settling in. "You don't have a fever, which means that you are free to go back to class. Are you sure you don't want to go home? If you feel nauseous at all, you probably should, honey." I was shaking my head before she had finished the statement.

"No, no, I want to keep going. May I go back to my class now?" I asked, letting a slightly desperate tone leak into my voice. She nodded, and I was out of the chair a second later, backpack in hand, clumsily stumbling on my feet for a few seconds before hurriedly making my way to the door. My breath whooshed out in relief the instant I was outside the nurse's office and back in the hallway, checking my map, my forehead scrunching up as I squinted at the tiny numbers, trying to find the right direction to return to my Biology classroom—the period still had fifteen minutes left in it.

Once I had determined my heading, I set off in the correct direction, thankful that the hallways, excluding me, were barren. I was sure that my swoon would spread around the campus like wildfire—with so little students, what else was there to gossip about? From my glimpses at the student body as they passed me earlier in the hallway, most of them were normal: meaning that they all dressed pretty similarly, and none appeared to be of the 'gothic' or 'gangster' variety that Phoenix was not lacking in. After reaching my Biology classroom door again, I took a deep breath, my hand on the handle, my heart racing as a blush warmed my neck. Geez. I thought the attention before was mortifying and I knew it would be worse the instant I set foot in the class again. Damn. Bracing myself, I opened the door slowly, stepping into the classroom.

Unfortunately, I tripped over my own feet and stumbled forward, catching myself on the edge of Mrs. Phillip's desk. My blush burned redder.

"Miss Swan, you're back," Mrs. Phillips said, her tone surprised. I nodded, looking fixatedly at the floor, wishing a hole would appear there so I could jump into it. "Have a seat by Mr. Cullen, if you feel well enough to continue with the class." I nodded again, probably looking mentally instable, as I preceded down the aisle, aware that every pair of eyes in the room were hooked onto me, boring holes in my dark blue sweatshirt.

I finally reached the vacant seat and sat in the chair, far from my desk partner, too timid to really look at him again, afraid of what the numbers would be on his forehead. I watched his pale, graceful hands mutely as they pushed his books over to his side of the table to create room for mine. Wordlessly, I put my binder on the table, peeking at him from beneath my bangs, instantly looking to his forehead. My breath caught in my throat, and I had to force myself to breathe, although my breaths were short, rapid and unsteady. It hadn't been a hallucination, or a delusion. He had died over a hundred years ago. Obviously, my gift was malfunctioning. Maybe the numbers didn't actually stand for their day of death. Maybe it stood for something else.

I'm sure the table could tell that I was humoring myself. Was he a ghost? I didn't believe in that sort of thing, but I was pretty much open to new ideas. I doubted he was a ghost—he looked so solid, and other people obviously could see him. He was pale enough to be one, however, but he was far too attractive to have been one, anyways.

He looked at me sharply; his lip curled up in an expression of disgust, and he leaned as far away from me as he could in his chair. I hastily focused my attention on the desk in front of me, hurt. I couldn't recall even speaking a word to him during the period, before or after my disappearance, and he had somehow already taken a strong dislike to me. Maybe he had noticed my not so subtle ogling of his forehead, and had detested people staring at him, as I did. Or maybe he just really didn't like me, for his own reasons. It could have been either of those reasons, or none of them, but the effect was the same: my tears watered slightly and I looked firmly at my binder, afraid of furthering his inexplicable loathing of me. Even though I wasn't looking at him, his image was burned permanently into my head; his beauty was unforgettable. I knew I would remember his image until May 1, 2074—the day I would die.

The fifteen minutes passed unbearably slow. Mrs. Phillips continued to babble annoyingly until the very end of the period, and I wondered if she even knew how obnoxious someone talking nonstop for an entire period was. The Cullen boy, who had continued in his aversion of me, gripping the table as if to prevent himself from hitting me, leaning as far as he could—which was quite far—without falling out of his chair. I didn't look at him again for the rest of the period, which took exercising every ounce of self-control I had, but the wetness in my eyes didn't leave, and that bothered me that such a complete stranger's disapproval of me injured me so. The bell finally excused the class, and my lab partner was out of his chair so fast that I couldn't see him move, and was out the door a half-second later, with all of his things, as if he couldn't wait to get away from me.

"Don't worry, he ignores everyone," a small blonde girl said from behind me. She smiled at me happily, and I hesitantly smiled back, noticing the dark roots of her hair that meant that she wasn't a natural blonde. "I'm Jessica, by the way," she added, picking up her backpack to stand by my table as I shoved my binder into my bag. "Jessica Stanley. Where'd you move from, Isabella?"

"Bella," I corrected her, as I straightened up, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, and getting a better look at her. She was a hand or two shorter than me, and very slender, thinner than even me. Obviously, she was not the kind of girl to be blessed with a curvier body, and neither was I. Her eyes were brown—which furthered my suspicion of her being a fake blonde—and her facial features were definitely pretty: a slender nose, small rounded lips, and high cheekbones. Her blonde hair slightly covered her forehead, but it made no difference; I could still interpret the numbers, clear as glass, on her forehead, reading "08232071." I sighed slightly as I read them, wishing that I didn't know these things. "I'm from Phoenix," I told her with a small smile. Quickly, I checked my schedule, a noted that I had P.E. next. It should be an easy class to find—the gym was large and in the front of the school, by the parking lot.

"Really?" Jessica exclaimed, as we left the Biology room. "Isn't it, like, ninety degrees there right now?" She said the words as if she couldn't imagine such heat—which wasn't surprising. Based on my short experiences with Forks, I didn't expect that it would rise above seventy five degrees here.

"It was in the hundreds when I left," I told her off-handedly, quickly stepping around a couple in the hallway that were locked in a hug, obstructing traffic effectively. "They were getting a bit of a heat wave." She looked so surprised at the information.

"What do you do?" she asked curiously, "in weather like that? Don't you melt?" She smiled at her own joke.

I smiled back. "You stay inside," I told her, and we parted, me heading towards the gym, back outside into the cold wetness of the rain.

I entered the lunchroom, holding my tray with my food on it, scanning the sea of numbered faces for any that were familiar. Breathing a sigh of relief, I spotted Jessica and Mike sitting at a table with a couple other people and there appeared to be room for one more. Mike waved at me frantically, like I was visually impaired, and I half-heartedly returned his wave as I crossed the cafeteria, choosing to take a vacant seat beside a pretty Asian girl instead of him. His face fell slightly, but he regained his normal enthusiasm quickly.

"Hey, Bella," he said excitedly. "I'll introduce you. Angela Weber." The Asian girl beside me smiled shyly at me before quickly returning to eating, and I smiled slightly back, liking her already. She had an aura of kindness around her; her face was rounded slightly, and her cheeks were lifted, like she was automatically smiling even when she didn't realize she was. Her noise was small, and her almond shaped eyes were a beautiful dark brown color, noticeable only if you focused closely through her black bangs covering her face. I cast my eyes away from her face, not really wanting to know when Angela would die. "Tyler," Mike continued.

"Hey howdy hoo," Tyler said, reaching around Angela to pat me roughly on the back. I looked up at him, trying to keep my expression neutral, although I wanted to snap at him that I wasn't a punching bag. He wasn't charming, exactly, to look at. He had black hair and light brown eyes, but his entire looks suggested he wasn't the brightest Crayola in the box. His hair didn't cover his large expanse of brow, and it emphasized the black numbering: "01072058" as well as the scatted pimples across his hairline.

"I'm Ben," said another boy from further down the table. He smiled warmly at me, and I noted his straight white teeth, probably from years of orthodontic treatment, just like mine. He had good posture, which my grandmother always said indicated a strong, responsible person, and was kind of attractive in his brown hair that was gelled back and his warm brown eyes covered by glasses. As he smiled, he unknowingly displayed his dimples, which I thought were pretty cute.

"Lauren," said another blonde girl from further down on the table. She lifted a manicured hand to the sky as she introduced herself, but made no effort to lift her gaze from the cell phone she was texting on. I already found myself disliking her, and, malignantly, I was satisfied that she was only going to live to be sixty-eight. The instant I thought it, I repented, and mentally apologized for the incredibly unkind thought.

"The boy that sat next to me in Biology," I said to Jessica, who was sitting across me me. "What was his first name?" He had never exactly introduced himself.

Her eyes glowed. "That was Edward Cullen. He is one of the top three hottest guys in the school, hands down." She pointed across the cafeteria, and I followed her finger with my eyes. There was a table, far in the corner, with four people sitting at it. "Those are his siblings. He left apparently, because he's in my fourth period and he wasn't there."

I eyes the beautiful beings that she had called his siblings. There were a blonde girl, a small black-hair girl, a blonde boy, and a larger brown-haired boy. They were all unnaturally beautiful. "The blonde is Rosalie," Jessica said sourly. I hid a smile as I detected her obvious jealously. But then I got a better look at this Rosalie and my smile faded. Rosalie was utterly drop-dead gorgeous. She had the long, wavy, silky blonde hair of the highest paid model, and the figure any girl would die for. If she stood, I imagined her to be about four inches taller than me, and much bigger in the chest and yet smaller in the waist. Her face was gorgeous as well, and had an arrogance to it, as if she was well aware of her beauty. Well, I would be too, if I looked like her.

"She's hot," Tyler commented, not like a compliment, but like a well-known fact.

"Anyways," Jessica continued, glaring at him. "The muscular one next to her is Emmett." I focused my eye on him next, gasping lowly as I took in his godly appearance. He was well-built, with a buffness like a body-builder. Even with his larger frame, he still appeared graceful, and beautiful, almost. His face was mature, and I found myself wondering how he could possibly still be in high school. "The blonde boy is Jasper and the little girl next to him is Alice." Jasper was also gorgeous; his blonde hair arrange messily on his head, reminding me of his supposed brother Edward, and his face was handsome: his chin narrower than Emmett's but just as strong, his nose sharp but soft at the same time. The girl next to him looked like a pixie. Her black hair was cropped short, and it suited her angelic features perfectly. Her frame was tiny, especially next to her huge brother, Emmett. She smiled up at Jasper, and I had never seen anything so angelic before.

Their looks were so different; it was hard for me to imagine them as siblings. The only thing they all had in common were their perfect looks—and of course their numbers.

All of their numbers, if I was reading them accurately from the distance, were all in the early twentieth century, and Jasper's even was in the nineteenth century. I hastily stopped looking at them, feeling the same panic as I had earlier with Edward. I breathed evenly through my nose, trying desperately not to pass out again. What was wrong with me?

_That was a very descriptive chapter. Hopefully it wasn't monotonous. Thanks for reading, and please review! Have a wonderful day._

_Mel._


	4. Chapter 4

_I'm so sorry that it's been forever since I updated—my parents took my computer away for a while, but I have it back now. So here is the next chapter. I hope it was completely worth the wait. Thanks for reading and please review._

"How was the first day?" Charlie asked from the couch as I shut the front door behind me.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, still feeling the aftermath of the shock. "It was okay. Everyone was really nice," I told him. Well, everyone except the mysterious Edward Cullen were nice, but I couldn't think about him right there or I would start freaking out again. I started to head towards the stairs to the safety of my bedroom, but Charlie heaved himself off the couch and took my book bag from my shoulder. I wanted to groan—all I wanted was to be alone to think—but instead I gave him an uneasy smile and followed him into the kitchen, where he deposited my bag on the table.

"Did you make friends?" he asked, obviously concerned.

"Yeah. I met some guy named Mike Newton and he introduced me to his friends," I told him, edging towards the table, trying to make my urge to leave discreet. Come on, Charlie, let me go upstairs.

"Oh, good. The Newtons are good people. Did anyone say anything bad about the Cullens?" His voice was fiercer at the end, and I felt my face heating up as I recalled that very odd, supposedly dead family.

"No," I said hastily, trying to cover my discomfort with the subject. He didn't notice—he was too worked up to be observant. He nodded, obviously satisfied with my answer, and I took the opportunity to seize my backpack from the table and head out of the kitchen. "I have some homework to do," I lied. It was a very unconvincing lie but Charlie didn't comment on it.

"All, right, Bells. By the way, one of my friends, Billy Black, is coming over for dinner to watch the Mariners play the Angels tonight. He has a son your age—do you remember Jacob?"

The names sounded familiar, but other than that, I had no idea who he was talking about. Desperate to cut our conversation short, I nodded briefly and the next second was at the base of the stairs, exhaling slowly as I climbed the stairs, tripping over my own feet and almost falling flat on my face. Blushing although no one but me saw my almost-fall, I caught myself by seizing the railing and pulling myself the rest of the way up. When I got into my room, I tossed my book bag onto my bed and began to boot up my laptop situated on an old wooden desk. Meanwhile, I flipped open my small maroon Verizon EnV 2, a parting gift from my mother so that I could "stay in touch" with my friends in Arizona, although I didn't really miss them. I had three new texts that were sadly all from my mother. How little of a social a teenage has if the only person texting them is their mother. After erasing the three messages, I opened up my email on the laptop and emptied it of all the worthless spam and settled down to read a lengthy email from my mother.

_Dear Bella,_

_How are you liking Forks? It's already really quiet around here without you! Phil got signed by the Suns, baby! We're moving to Jacksonville! Can you believe it? Florida! It's going to be so humid. I'll send you my new address and phone number as soon as we figure it out, honey._

_But that's not all my news. Okay, brace yourself. I'm pregnant! I took a test this afternoon, but I haven't told Phil yet! Isn't it fantastic, honey? You're going to be a big sister! And I'm going to be a mother again! I'm so excited. But I'm also scared. How should I tell Phil? This will shock him, I know._

_With love,_

_Mom and your going-to-be-brother-or-sister_

I could only stare at the screen. A baby? I had just left Arizona, and I was already being replaced. Not that I was unhappy with the idea—I loved children. But I was feeling a little… odd, knowing that she was starting a new life with Phil. My initial shock wore off, and I typed in my reply, which gave her congratulations and a suggestion of how to tell Phil. I logged off my email and leaned back in the chair, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror. I lightly touched the numbers on my forehead, the ones I knew by heart.

It was such a strange feeling—knowing when you will die. On one hand, I'm not concerned. I once sat down with a calculator and figured out I would be over eighty when I died. So it's not like my death is right around the corner. But on the other hand, I knew how easily the numbers could change. If I decided to do something that set me on a course to an earlier death, they would change. But maybe I was wrong about that, I thought suddenly, recalling the mystery of the Cullen's numbers. How could they have already died? They weren't ghosts—I didn't believe in such things, anyways.

Sighing, I stood up and paced back and forth in the room a few times before settling myself on my bed, laying back and staring at the ceiling unseeingly. I probably would never figure out this mystery—how could I? Politely ask? "Excuse me, Edward Cullen, but could maybe explain why the numbers on your head say you've been dead for a hundred years? You aren't dead, are you?" Hell no, I couldn't do that. Not if I wanted to spend the remainder of my life out of an asylum.

Someone knocked at my door and I lifted my head, wondering what Charlie wanted now. "Come in," I called.

The door slowly opened and I sat up in bed, trying not to roll my eyes as my father smiled at me. "Jacob and Billy are here. Come downstairs. I think you'll like Jacob." Being social wasn't something I really wanted to do right then and there, but I nevertheless sighed and stood up to follow him downstairs, only tripping once.

A tall tan guy about my age was leaning against the wall at the base of the stairs. He looked Native American; his hair was long, dark and black and pulled back in a ponytail. He was _very_ tall, I realized, as I drew nearer to the base of the stairs, but he didn't look like a beanpole like other tall teenage guys did. He turned his head as I stumbled a second time, and smiled slightly. I noticed how white his teeth were with some surprise.

"This is Jacob. Jacob, meet my daughter Bella. This was her first day at school here," my father said, introducing us. I smiled shyly, tilting my head back so I could see Jacob's smiling face. My smiled faded immediately and I felt my face go pale.

I couldn't read the numbers on his head.

Not because he was so dang tall, not because I possibly needed glasses, but because the numbers were merely a blur across his forehead. A blur. What did that mean?! Why were the people of Forks testing everything I knew about my ability? Was I wrong all along? How could he not have a death date? Everyone dies, right? How could someone not die?

How could someone be dead but still be walking and talking, a voice pointed out in the back of my head. What did all of this _mean?_

_And that's it for now. It was a little shorter than the previous chapters. Sorry about that. :/ But thanks for reading and for being patient with me. Please review and have a wonderful day._

_Mel._


	5. Chapter 5

_Wow. It's been a long time. I had the worst, longest case of writer's block EVER. :( Well, anyways, I'm back now. I've been contemplating a few other story ideas for once I finish my other Twilight story, _Sunrise_. At the end of this chapter, I will put a few, and I'd really appreciate if you guys could comment on them honestly. And I mean honestly. If you think it sucks, let me know. HAHA. Thanks so much for being patient with me and reading. Enjoy (hopefully)._

I took a deep breath before I stepped into Biology, expecting the Cullen kid to be gone, like he had been for the past week and a half. Crap. He wasn't absent. I kept my gaze glued to the floor as I walked to my seat, sitting on the side of the chair furthest from his. I guess he wasn't a figment of my overactive imagination. Peeking from under my hair, I observed that his number was the same date over a century ago. I quickly dropped my gaze, my heart pounding too quickly. I don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in the supernatural. Ironically, I did believe in number foretelling people's deaths.

The bell rang, forcing Mike Newton to stop gazing at me and focus his attention on Mrs. Phillips instead, which I was thankful for. After taking role, Mrs. Phillips proceeded to tell us that we were doing a lab today in which we were going to be using a microscope to identify the phases of mitosis as well as contrasting animal cells from plant cells.

"I'll get the supplies," I muttered quietly without meeting my attractive lab partner's gaze. I hurriedly stood up and headed to the back of the classroom, stumbling over the projector cord. Hastily, I grabbed a microscope and the set of slides we needed and returned to my seat much slower.

"I'm Edward," my lab partner said in a perfect velvety voice. I couldn't control the shivers going down my spine. "And you're Isabella." He didn't phrase it as a question.

"Bella," I corrected him as I placed one of the slides on the microscope slide, determinedly evading looking at him, afraid that I might do something stupid, like gape at the century-old number on his forehead or pass out again.

"Bella, then." I quickly looked at the slide through the lens, hitting myself in the eye with the microscope in my haste not to look at him.

"Animal," I said quickly, pulling away from the slide to write it down on my paper.

"How are you liking Forks?" my partner asked as he wrote down the answer on his own paper. I looked over, observing his calligraphy-like handwriting and hiding my annoyance at that fact. Was everything about this guy perfect?

"It's fine," I replied shortly, not wanting to talk to him, disliking how my heart was pounding, not in fear, as he talked to me.

"I see," he said simply, like he understood perfectly.

"No, you don't," I retorted as I scribbled answers down on my paper. "You don't. I just met you. You don't know anything about me." I wished that I could honestly say I liked it that way. Why did he have such an effect on me?

"You're right. It was presumptuous of me to assume otherwise," he apologized sincerely. He sounded like he came straight from a Jane Austen novel, and I had to try not to smile at him. "Your boyfriend is annoyed with me," he said smoothly, sounding maybe just a little smug.

"Boyfriend?" I asked in surprise. I looked up and immediately noticed what he was talking about. Mike was glowering at him from across the room and I tried not to snicker at the furious expression on his face. "He's not my boyfriend," I said, accidentally looking at my partner's face. His eyes, golden and light, stared at me, not warmly, but in a confused sort of way that had me shifting uncomfortably on my chair. "Your eyes," I blurted out, unable to look away.

He broke our eye contact. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

"I… forget it." I convinced myself that I had imagined his dark black eyes the week an a half previously. Obviously my memory had messed things up. Without intending to, I found myself staring at the numbers on his forehead. Was reincarnation possible? Was it possible that the death date on his head was from a previous life or something? Was it possible that something had messed up with him? I laughed out loud at the irony. I saw numbers on people's heads and I thought he was messed up.

"Want to share the joke?" he asked me quietly as he removed one of the slides from the microscope. I had reached forward at the same instant, and my fingers brushed lightly against the back of his hand. There was no crackling electricity, like in books, but goosebumps appeared on my arms, like it was cold in the class even though it wasn't.

"Sorry," I apologized as he quickly pulled his hand away from mine. "And no, I was just laughing at some irony. Not remotely funny." My voice shook and I took a deep breath that shuddered somewhat.

"All right," he said. We worked in an awkward silence for the rest of the period. I stole glances at him every once in a while, but otherwise, we ignored each other, with the exception of occasionally sharing an answer. The bell finally rang, releasing me from the tense atmosphere. Barely half a second later, Edward was out of the door, leaving me blinking in shock behind him.

"What was up with you and Cullen?" Mike asked sharply. Instantly, I was irritated.

"Nothing. And it's none of your business what 'Cullen and I' are up to," I snapped at him as Jessica Stanley caught up with us.

"Whoa, what'd I miss?" she demanded as Mike stormed away from me down a hall to his next class. "What's this I hear about you and a Cullen? Which one?"

"Edward," I replied. "And nothing happened," I insisted to her surprised and slightly envious expression. "We were just talking in Biology."

"Bella, he never talks to anyone. He must be, like, into you or something," she gushed excitedly, but the look in her eyes said she wasn't as happy for me as she wanted me to believe.

I shrugged. "I doubt it. He was just being polite. Besides, why would he be into me?" I'd never had any success with the opposite gender. I was too shy with them to be easily likable and wasn't pretty enough for them not to care if I wasn't likable.

"Well, you are smart and pretty," she said lightly, but I got the impression she didn't mean it.

"Uh, thanks," I said awkwardly. I knew he wasn't into me—he was too careful for that. Careful like if he said the wrong thing, I'd burst into tears or something. Which was understandable, considering the first time I'd seen him, I'd fainted to the floor at his feet. Not exactly the best first impression I could have on him.

_And that is it. Okay, thanks for reading and please review. Now these are a few of my story ideas._

_-A story about Nessie and Jacob and Nahuel. I'd mainly write this one because I dislike the fact that she and Jacob are going to be together just because she is his Imprint. Wouldn't it bother you if you had no choice in who you married and loved? I think she deserves the chance of choosing her own life path, and that is where Nahual would come in._

_-A story about Alice and Jasper's journey to discover another half human, half vampire in Breaking Dawn. I'd like to write this one because I really love Alice and Jasper pairings and I think it's great if they have the chance to save the day._

_Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading and please review. Have a wonderful day._

_Mel._


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